


Perfection

by Hagar



Category: Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, Power Rangers Turbo, Power Rangers Zeo
Genre: Altered Mental States, Consent Play, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Marking, POV Alternating, Post Golden Wave, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, mild pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if she’ll let him beg for a larger dose, and he thinks she won’t. She’s never let him before. He can never choose <i>more.</i> He also knows that the despair of how badly he needs to be her puppet, her plaything, anything so long as it is <i>hers,</i> is driven by the poison, her poison pushing all of him away, as insignificant as the weak, traitorous body he cannot feel and therefore cannot control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> I have been trying to write this story for years. _Years._ And then it just showed up.
> 
> Sort of using what I set up in [After Five Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/344965), but you really don't need to read that for this one.

The stab of pain catches him by surprise. It burns, burns as if someone injected acid and fire into the muscle, burns like a white sun behind Adam’s suddenly closed eyelids. The pain is intense enough to wipe out all other thoughts and concerns, but it is not so intense that Adam doesn’t have time enough to notice where it’s at: in his arm, above the elbow, at heart-level, and he’s only just lucky enough that the entry point isn’t at his torso -

That’s his last thought because then the pain flares and spreads, the acid fire running up every last nerve his arm has - it runs down to his fingers, too, but that’s insignificant as the burn hits the shoulder ganglion and then leaps everywhere - neck and head and back before legs, before his other arm, but Adam doesn’t grasp that, cannot grasp that, as all of him, all he is, is nothing more than that bright-hot acid agony.

In the wake of the pain there is nothing. No sight, no sound, no feeling at all but some distant amber that pulls, eliciting some tightness. A sound emerges from the numbness, a sound and a tremor, not quick with pain but slow, slow enough to drag him down even more: it is the sound of his own heart.

He knows, eventually, what has happened to him. He knows, eventually, who is standing behind him and pressing still her finger against the entry point, that amber that would fill his entire mind if he stopped fighting it. This is Scorpina’s poison running through his body, rendering him trembling and stupid and mute. That is Scorpina’s right hand sneaking under his shirt and laying against his stomach, ball of hand and palm and fingers and when the tips of those claw-nails touch his skin the tremors intensify and his body almost arches, because his body remembers what her poison can do to him, what it can feel like.

The memory grips him only for a split second; then it’s her palm against his skin again and she’s pulling down, over his hip-bone; he holds to that sensation like a lifeline because her left hand is suddenly gone from his arm - and for what feels like too-long the loss of that sensation is keening in his mind like an ultrasonic scream and he wants to do anything, anything if it will bring that feeling back - knows that it’s her poison in his brain and wants it anyway, but he manages to not beg, to not fall to his knees - but then that hand is under his shirt too, and she’s pulling his shirt up, her breath hot and moist against his spine and then teeth grazing, biting, sending more hot acid up and down his back as her fingers dig into his inflamed shoulder, shirt being pulled off -

 

* * *

 

When he next comes to he is lying on his back on a sofa. There is something propped under his head so that the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is not the ceiling but her, sitting on the far corner of the backrest. She’s not looking at him; she’s working at her nails, one leg neatly crossed over the other.

He can see that the sofa is leather, but he can’t feel it. His body is nothing more than a hazy, heavy feeling; his breath is shallow and slow. He’s not sure what happened to him, doesn’t remember where he is or how he got there. The memories return, eventually, or some of them do: he knows what she’s done to him, he thinks he knows where he is, and he knows he can’t remember most everything else because she’s flooded him with tactile sensations during the first stage of the poisoning.

He thinks he’s probably naked by now, but he cannot control his body enough to look and there is no breeze for him to feel on his privates or on his chest.

He knows exactly how helpless he is. And he knows this was only a medium dose.

He wonders if she’ll let him beg for a larger dose, and he thinks she won’t. She’s never let him before. He can never choose _more._ He also knows that the despair of how badly he needs to be her puppet, her plaything, anything so long as it is _hers,_ is driven by the poison, her poison pushing all of him away, as insignificant as the weak, traitorous body he cannot feel and therefore cannot control.

She looks up at him and all of that ceases to matter because her eyes are yellow, bright yellow now, and they break across his mind like summer sunlight on the lake, and he _wants._

 

* * *

 

She watches him where he lays splayed open before her, where she laid him, too-pale skin against black leather. His body is relaxed as if in slumber, face too slack for expression, but his eyes are focused, if feverish. She knows that look; his are not the first like in which she’s put it. She knows that right now he is lucid but that lucidity is thin ice and he knows it as well, and wants for it to break, wants for her to tip him into mindlessness with a flick of her finger against his toe. But that, she knows, that would be nothing. He knows that, too: that want is nothing more than her juice in his system. It’s enough to make him unable to resist her, enough to wipe his mind if she would choose to add even a little more, but it would also be wholly unsatisfactory to her.

That? She could have that with anyone. That was nothing. Any mature female of her species - if any remained - could do that to a male, and to the females of certain species. It was impersonal, it was nothing. She wanted _him,_ wanted to possess him truly. Her juice could make her a door, but to achieve what she wanted, it was the tools of his mind that she should use.

“Ultimately, you were useless. Ultimately, you were useless,” she repeats, because the sound of her voice alone had sent him into spasms. She repeats it, soft and soothing, until the spasms turned to tremors and then to nothing but the most delicate shivers, until his eyes open again, until they clear and focus, until he actually hears and understands the words.

“Ultimately, you were useless,” she repeats one last time. “Ultimately, you were not needed. You were cast aside, left behind, left to die for all that anyone cared. And why should it matter? You’re no longer needed, aren’t you. And even if you were, you don’t deserve it. You’ve abandoned your friends, so now they’ve abandoned you.”

Her juice didn’t undo the shackles only on his body: it undid the shackles on his mind, too. For now he feels the pains of his mind - and these were his words that she’d just smothered him with - as clearly as he would feel it if she were to press a strong finger against that sensitive spot at the top of his foot arch, and that would have a person whimpering in pain who wasn’t drugged. She could flog bleeding stripes across his back and pour salt water over the wounds, and that would not hurt more than did the words she just spoke to him; less, even. She’d tried that before. The agony of the body was just a distraction from the agony of the mind. Adam was capable of enjoying that even without her juice in his blood.

She can say more, the words already lined up, but she doesn’t because a shiver wracks him from head to toe, and she wants him delirious with agony, not mindless with it.

She casts her voice into a sweeter cadence, and says: “So now I have you all to myself, and nobody is coming for you…”

He shivers again, and this shiver does not dissipate into stillness but into tiny, constant tremors.

She eyes him critically. He’s shivering; his eyes are fever-bright with tears and not quite focused; and his breath oh so very shallow. Now, now she has him. Or will, once she makes her offer.

She wants it, wants _him_ so badly. Her sex is tight with it, heavy, in time with her pulse. She wants to feel his surrender, to watch the bliss she knows she can put on his face, wants the feel of it in her body as she knows that there is nothing to him but her, that nothing matters to him but her pleasure. She wants what is her right, to possess him so.

And now, he is ready.

She drops her hand and it falls precisely to his foot. She works it, running the tips of her fingers against arch and toes, using the exact amount of force needed to hit the peak of pleasure, just beneath the threshold of pain. This is a test. She eyes him critically, but his eyes remain on her and do not lose any more focus.

“I suppose I could find some use for you,” she says as if musing. “Since you’re already here, right here,” and there she does apply enough force to hurt. “Such a shame, to have useless things. And you don’t want to be useless, do you, Adam? You want to be good. Do you want to be good for me?”

It takes him a split-second too long to answer - why does he _always_ has to deny himself what he wants - so she removes her hand.

“Yes!” the word comes promptly. “Yes, please, take -”

Now the tears come in full, choking him, and she deigns to return her hand, rubbing soft circles against his ankle.

“Please take me,” he whispers. “I want to be good for you. I want to be good for you, please, _please._ ”

“All right,” she says, still sweet. “All right,” she repeats, husky. She shifts off the backrest so she can better work at his legs. It creates that much more contact between them. A quick glance confirms that Adam’s eyes became unfocused, but that doesn’t matter anymore.

She can drag it out, but she doesn’t. There’s nothing for her to gain from that, and that’s not the kind of yearning she’s interested in for him. She knows how to scrape at his inner thighs and cup his balls to make him hard quickly, and that’s what she does.

She doesn’t sit on him right away, though. Adam’s entire body flushes when he’s aroused. Most of it is just a faint pink, but the red of his cheeks is so intense it is was almost purple. His breath is not just shallow but quick, now, and growing quicker, his eyelids drooped almost entirely.

“You are so pretty,” she whispers. “I love looking at you so fucking much, I love to watch you like this, so are so pretty to me.” She stretches from where she’s crouched between his legs to kiss him loosely on the mouth, her fingers now pinching at his nipples. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers against his face; he’s probably too high to register anything more than her tone, so she pulls back from him a little and repeats it, “You’re beautiful,” until those brown eyes open up to stare at her, confusion warring with adoration, both of them as naked as he is.

“You’re mine, aren’t you,” she whispers in wonder, more to herself than to him.  He might’ve replied, but she slides a finger into his mouth and his eyes slide shut again, face going slack with that bliss she’s been seeking.

That is only a brief distraction. She pulls herself up and then slides down his body, deliberately rubbing her wet clit down his torso, down and up and down again. His head rolls to the side so she slaps him and grabs his chin to reposition his head. “Look at me,” she commands. His eyes open as far as he can manage. “Do you want to be good for me?” she demands. He nods. “Then stay with me,” she orders.

 _Yes, ma’am,_ his lips form. No sound comes out, but that doesn’t matter. This is satisfactory.

She pats her hand against his cheek, smoothing the red print she left, and continues to slither down his body, toying with her own patience until she finally - finally, _finally_ \- she positions herself over his shaft, knees on his side of his body.

“Oh, you’re so good,” she breaths as she slides down on him, little by little, in small slow pumps. “Oh, you are so good for me, you’re my good boy, aren’t you, Adam?” Sitting on him fully, she leans forward to grab his hair and kiss him on the lips, more fully this time.

“Yes,” he whispers against her lips, barely a breath of moist air. “Yes, please.”

“Sh,” she breaths, planting another kiss at the corner of his mouth. She lets go of his hair, pulls herself up again, and begins to move in earnest. She’s going to have to work at it, to come this way. She needn’t worry about Adam coming before she does. He can’t, not with her juice in his system. He won’t be able to get soft until the juice clears enough for his head to clear, and he won’t be able to come for hours after. Adam might remember that, if there is room left in his mind for anything but how much he needs to please her and how good that feels.

So she allows herself to forget, allows herself to focus on sliding and rubbing the way that is right for her, and no matter if she leaves bruises and abrasions where she grips Adam’s hips for leverage, no matter if she kicks his shoulder when she repositions herself. If he says anything it is only “Yes” and “Please”, but the words abandon him and turn to cries as he comes undone beneath her, as his body loses all tension.

The little cries don’t stop and that becomes distracting. The next time she slides down to his balls she opens her eyes - oh, he looks so wrecked, so lovely - and falls more than she reaches forward, closing her mouth around the red and purple spot on his arm where she stung him. The crying changes; he would come if he could come now. He can’t, but her tongue and teeth working at that spot, getting her saliva in his blood, can send him into oblivion. It will also make the afterglow more drawn out and the hangover diminished so she works at it for a few more seconds after he grows silent. But not too many: she wants him possessed, not unconscious.

His head is thrown to the side when she draws back but now she doesn’t mind because the bliss on his face is perfect, _perfect, her_ perfect boy, her perfect, good boy, and she caresses his face and bites his lips hard enough to draw blood and whispers those words, getting his blood on her lips as she does so. He smiles, so perfect, so absolutely carefree, so fragile, he smiles this way for _her_ and for her alone.

She pulls herself up and slams it home.

 

* * *

 

She opens her eyes to look at him again only after her body had relaxed its hold on his, her sex on his and her hands on his hips. He’s marked up right, scratches on his hips, torn lip, bruises on his arms and shoulders. He’s also high, so high, and relaxed like he can never get any other way.

Her body comes down from the high gear that the sting brought in her, too, both the release of the venom and its effects on Adam’s scent. The worry comes as the excitement leaves: has she gone too far? Were her motives true? Who is she, who has she been for the past hour, Scorpina or Rina?

Rina, she’s Rina. She’s only used one finger’s worth of venom, and her ring finger at that. It’s a dose that Adam can resist, when he wants to, but it’s enough to have the intended effect. The little finger dose is enough to serve as a safe and highly effective painkiller - which they’ve done when Adam had had to have his wisdom teeth surgically removed -  but not for any purpose of pleasure.

Adam can’t pull himself out of his head alone, on the bad days. It’s why she’s moved herself into his place, long before they’d ever had sex: because he was hurting and in this new life, she wanted to sooth that hurt.

It so happened that the remnants of her old self fit so well against Adam’s wounds, that the defanged remnants of her old instincts fit against that which could make his self-recrimination _stop._

Delicate balance: to press against his wounds enough to hurt, enough to stop the bleeding, but not so much as to cause damage.

She could sting him with her ring finger, if it was a bad day. He could still walk away, if he wanted, or they could cuddle on the couch or in bed until he came down and that would be it and, many times, that was enough. Many times all he needed was to be held - to be made to relax enough to be held - and she could and did revel in that, too.

And then there are days like today. The doubts always come once her body begins to unwind, and that is why she opens her eyes and stares at his face. He’s marked up right, bruises and bloody scratches. He’s also relaxed, so calm, so perfectly at ease, her perfect boy blissed out beneath her.

She removes herself from him with a sigh and carefully lays herself next to him, keeping the full body contact even as she reaches for the wipes and the bottle of water she’d left in arm’s reach earlier. She lets him drink, too, and the water slips through the smile that the touch of her hand brings to his face.

She kisses him, kisses all over his face as much as she wants to, licking the dried blood away. She pulls the blanket up from the floor, covers both of them and tangles their legs together, getting as much contact as she can. “We’re perfect for each other,” she whispers against his skin, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to his girlfriend draped all around him, and the blanket soft against his naked skin. He’s fully naked and Rina is sound asleep. Everything else is a little hazy, so much so that it takes Adam a moment to realize that he’s high, and what kind of a high that is. His body is so relaxed he couldn’t hope to move it but the last thing he wants is to move, so that is all right. He can’t really think. He knows his mind is childish and stupid for now, but all the realization brings is giddy happiness. He must have been good, if Rina gave him this. He must have been very good. He must have made her happy.

He twists his neck so he can look at her face. Yes. Happy. Languid and relaxed against him, breathing deeply and evenly.

It must have been bad before. He knows that. He knows that something must have gotten at him, something must have triggered old hurts. He might be able to remember if he really tries, but he doesn’t. He’ll fall asleep, and he’ll wake up again, and the memories will come back on their own later. And by the time they do the shield of Rina’s joy, of Rina’s faith, will sink deeply into his skin, and whatever it was that had hurt him earlier won’t hurt so bad.

He closes his eyes, and falls into a healing sleep.


End file.
